in the small spaces
of your heart.
I often pause
quietly and
riot your denial
using handfuls of ink
and my fingertips,
writing declarations sloppily
on PostIts found
on the table I cry
on after every visit
I have with you.
Every time I see you,
I hold your glaze loudly
as I secretly place
my notes in your hair.
They're for the girl
you'll love loudly in
all the places
we've quietly been.
Next time she runs
her fingers through your hair,
confessionals will stick
to her fingertips,
your denial duly noted.